Chewing the Fat

For those times that I want to blather on about whatever.

On the road

Hello everyone,

I am at present in Clive’s cafe using their Internet access, and waiting for our 7 PM reading at Cornerstone Cafe.  We did our reading this morning at Glenmerrry Elementary for a wonderful group of students.  The hands kept flying in the air, which is always a wonderful thing for an author to see.  The worst is that dead pause when nobody, and I mean nobody wants/is brave enough to get the ball rolling. 

I always have a special affection in my heart for the first hand that is hoisted into the air. 

We left the hotel in Nelson at 9:30 this morning.  It was snowing hard.  Oh hey, I’m going to post a very bad picture I took out of the back seat of the van of the snow whizzing by.  It is a very flawed picture and I wasn’t planning on posting it, but as I was writing this, I thought the grimy smeared visual might help.  Be right back.  I’m off to wrestle with the mechanics of downloading a picture.  (Speaking of which, I’ve posted another blog on the BC Book Tour blog as well, for those of you who feel the need to over indulge in a dose of Meg.)

See what I mean.  Bad photo, but it gives you an idea of what the glamorous life of an author is like.  For all of you aspiring authors.  Pounding snow in April.  It’s a good thing Don made me stuff a sweater in my suitcase at the last minute, even though I scoffed at him.  “Don,” I said.  “I checked on the Weather Network.  It said it was going to be 8 degrees Celsius.” Not.  I am freezing my butt off.

However, here in Trail, it is warmer.  There are no banks of waist deep snow.  There is no snow at all.  We did, while we were shlepping around town, have hail.  There was a rumor started amongst the authors that it was debris from the smelter, but Meg, the detective came to the rescue.  I picked up a piece and it melted in my hand.  Hail.  I type this a trifle more smugly than is seemly.  I guess it’s that whole, “Okay, maybe I didn’t go to University like the rest of you, but I know hail when I see it!” ( Now I’m sitting here in this cafe with a huge smile on my face.  Silly huh?  Glad I’m facing the window and they can’t see me.)

Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, April 21, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Soiree

Hello bloggers,

This is a picture of KC and me at the BC Book Prize Soiree last night.  For those of you who are long time readers of my blog, KC is the person I was nervous about asking if she’d like to go for a walk.  Well, now here we are a couple months later, we go for a walk every week.  What a happy outcome huh?  So if there is someone you have met, that you think you might like to be friends, give it a go.  Even if you think you might look like a doofus.  Not much to lose, a little dignity perhaps.  But who knows, you might end up lucky like me and have a new friend.

(And don’t worry, I’m not going to inundate you with photos.  I’m just practicing.  Don was teaching me how, so hopefully, I’ll be able to post some pictures of our road trip on the BC Book Tour blog.)

Posted by Meg Tilly on Sunday, April 20, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

I should be…

figuring out, trying on what I think I might wear tonight for the BC Book Soiree.  At the very least, I should be upstairs right now, packing my suitcase, since we leave early in the morning for the Kootenays.  I also have, on my to-do list, the ironing of Will’s school clothes to get him through the next week.

Instead, what am I doing?  Well, I’m coming up with clever hair solutions.  I think this one camouflages my haircut shortcomings in a nice, understated way.  What do you think?

It is amazing the things I will get up to when a good powerful bout of procrastination hits.  I think it looks rather artistic.  Don of course, howled with laughter and grabbed his camera and snapped a few photos for prosperity. I decided to post one on my blog.

We have the good folks at BC Book Prizes to thank for this, as they gave us a print out on how to post pictures on their blog as we travel from town to town.  I wish I could say I have the downloading picture thing conquered, but Don is the one that figured it out and up-loaded it for me.  (See, I think I even got the lingo wrong.)

Anyway he promised to teach me before I leave.  Yeah, right.  Would that be before I plow through my other laundry list of things-to-do or after?

Sigh.  One of the reasons I am procrastinating so much is that, I was really excited to be included on the Book Tour, but now, all of a sudden, we leave tomorrow, and I don’t feel ready to leave my comfy cozy nest.  I feel like I just got home.  And what if the other authors don’t like me and think I’m dumb and nobody will want to sit next to me at meals.  That would suck. 

Nope, I don’t think I shall post this picture on their blog.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Saturday, April 19, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

I’m not being political…

I read this article and felt the need to post it on my site.  No comment.  Just want to put it out there.  Oh, and by the way, Stephen Harper became our Prime Minister in 2006.  That’s all I have to say.

MONTREAL (AFP) - The number of suicides among Canadian soldiers reached their highest level in a decade last year, according to documents cited Friday on public radio.

The average within the army was 16 suicides per year between 1994 and 2005, but the number reached 20 in 2006 and then spiked to 36 suicides in 2007, according to documents obtained by a researcher through a Canadian freedom of information request.

The Canadian suicide rate appears to mirror trends in the US military, whose suicide numbers have risen sharply in recent years and reached a 25-year high in 2006, according to the Pentagon.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Friday, April 18, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Becky

Becky came over on the morning ferry and we had a nice day together.  Went for a walk, then lunch, then...THE CANDY STORE!  It was fun.  We bought whatever we wanted.  All kinds of candy from childhood memories, and anything else that looked tasty!  And it was fun. 

“Remember, “ Becky said as we were leaving the candy store, both of us lugging a brown paper bag stuffed full of candy.  “When we were little and would daydream about this kind of thing?”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling at her happily.

“We’re so lucky.”

“Yeah.  We are.  Sometimes I can’t even believe it.” And then I hugged her right there on the sidewalk and she hugged me, one arm style, so we could keep a good grip on our candy.  And we walked like that, arms around each others shoulders, heads tipped together.  Becky and Meg, young, and Becky and Meg old walking down the street.  The past and the present all intermingled. 

I remember once, at school on Texada, I can’t remember what grade I was in, 6th or 7th.  Can’t remember who found the penny.  Whether it was Becky or me?  I do remember though, that we were very happy about it.  And at lunch break we walked a mile to Mary’s cafe and bought a green bozo.  Spearmint flavor.  I carefully bit it in half.  Did such a good job that Becky had a hard time choosing which half to pick.  And then once she had, we popped that half a gum in our mouths and chewed it and it was good.

And now, we are all grown up and we can go into a candy store and buy whatever we want, and eat it too.  Before dinner if we like.  If that isn’t proof positive that magic can happen, I don’t know what is.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Wednesday, April 16, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

dinner

We are going out for dinner tonight.  We had a haircut scheduled for Will. ( No, not at the place where I got mine. )

When we got there the receptionist said, “Oh, didn’t you get the call?”

“What call?” I said.

“Amanda wasn’t feeling well, so she had to go home early. But don’t worry,” she said turning to Will with a perky smile.  “We can squeeze you in with John.”

NOW, normally, after Don and me picking Will up from school, banging around the shopping center for 40 minutes until appointment time, I would have said, “Fine.  John, Amanda, what’s the diff?” And maybe Will would have gone along with it, or maybe not, but it would have been worth a try. 

But I am wiser now.  I have learned from my experience.  “No way,” I said.  “It’s Amanda or nothing.  It took us a long time to find someone who cut his hair like he likes it.  We’ll wait until she’s well again.” I wasn’t even grouchy about the drive down and the pointless meandering we had to do around the mall.  There was no way I was going to let my boy step into the unknown hair dressing shears ever again. 

We re-scheduled.  Left the salon.  Will didn’t say anything about it.  Me either.  But I felt proud just the same.  Like maybe we dodged a major bullet there.  Like I didn’t care that we gave up an hour that we could have been doing something practical.  I was glad to put my foot down and say, no way.

Anyway, how I enticed Don into coming with me for the haircut field-trip was by saying, that by the time Will’s haircut was finished, it would be five o’clock, so instead of Don having to cook tonight, we could go out for dinner instead.  And then we thought, on the drive to Will’s school, about all the delicious places we could eat at.  And we settled on this really yummy French restaurant that does amazing things with pork loin and apples and crispy chunks of potatoes, and Will adores their duck, cooked to perfection with grapes and pears and a delicious cheese polenta.

And so, even though it is no longer practical, because we didn’t get Will’s haircut, and had already driven home, our mouths were already ready for the delectable dinner, so we made a reservation anyway and will be leaving shortly.

Um...my mouth is watering just thinking about it. 

Bye, I’m off.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Tuesday, April 15, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

BC Book Prize blog

Hello everybody.  The BC Book Tour database recognizes me now so if you want to read the posting I did today you can go to www.bcbookprizes.ca then click on Finalists On Tour and the click on On Tour Blog.  I’ll blog here a little later. xo

Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, April 14, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

the continuing saga

When Don read my blog, we were both in fits of laughter, so much so that Don had to go to the bathroom to get some toilet paper to wipe his eyes.  I was laughing too, but when he went to the bathroom, a few of the laughter tears turned sad for a second and I had to scrub furiously to get them mopped up before he returned.

“My aching stomach,” he moaned, clutching it on the return.  And then he returned to the reading aloud of it, and we returned to the belly aching laughter, and it was really funny, until he got to the end and read the last couple sentences.  “Oh...” he said, shrinking slightly in his chair.  “I’m sorry.” Eyes stricken.

“Oh, I’m fine now,” I said.  And I was really, other than my brief sorrow when he dashed to the bathroom.  That was a momentary thing.  A .05% of the rest of what I was feeling.  I know what my haircut looks like.  I know it’s ridiculous.  I was laughing too. 

I went upstairs to our bathroom to look at it again in the mirror, a chagrined Don at my heels.  “You know what it is?” I said to Don.  “The bangs right here are too heavy.  They fall into my face, get stuck on my glasses.  I just need to cut them a bit and maybe it will look better.”

Sheer panic on Don’s face.  “You’re kidding right?”

“Nope!” I said.  Because really, I could take the bread knife to my hair and it couldn’t look worse.  “Where are the scissors.”

“Don’t do it!” Don said.  “It’s not that bad.” (Interpretation: You’re only going to make it worse.) No matter.  I grab the scissors and wield them with more confidence that I feel.  It’s sort of like a kid has just dared me to eat dirt.  Why not, right?

I start snipping, a little hair here, a bit more there.  I am not a hairdresser by any means.  Don was watching in horror.  I was having fun. 

I’m not even going to try to guess how relieved he was when my ride to the CWILL meeting arrived.

As Karen (aka KC Dyer/author/ kcdyerblogspot.com) drove us into town she shored my confidence up with how much she liked my haircut and that it was cute etc.  And then at the CWILL meeting that Kari Lynn-Winter (author of Jeffery and Sloth, also up for a BC Book Prize) arranged for some teachers to come in and talk with us about what they liked and didn’t like about the teacher’s guides they were getting.  It was very helpful.  And not only that, but I got a lot more reassuring comments about my disaster of a haircut.  “It makes you look way younger,” someone piped up.  Really?  Yay!

So, I felt quite a bit pluckier returning home.  Actually, most of the time I forget that it looks different because I’m not seeing it.  I’m just looking out of the same old eyes and face.  I can’t see what my hair looks like.  And whether I like the haircut or not, I’m certainly not about to lurk about town with a brown paper bag over my head. 

Look at it this way, a lousy haircut on me, can make everyone else feel much more grateful and happier with their own hairdressers. 

I get home and Don is being quite sweet.  It is obvious he’s thought a lot about my, “Honey, you are supposed to say things like, you look cute, it’s like a whole new you, it makes me want to leap on your bones.  That sort of thing.  Even if you don’t like it.  Because there is nothing I can do.  The hair is cut.  It’s gone.  I can’t glue it back on my head.  Then in a few days, or a week, after the shock has worn off, then you say, I like this look, but I think perhaps I even like the way you used to wear your hair better.”

“I like your haircut now,” he says, following me into the kitchen, lying through his teeth.  “I think I just needed to get used to it is all.  Now that it’s flattened out a bit, it’s quite flattering.  It’s just when you’d first walked in this afternoon, the hair dresser had poofed it or something and it was all fluffed up on the top of your head like a huge souffle.  But now?  Now it looks.  Well, I’m getting used to it now.  I...” he swallows.  “Like it.  It makes you look...” and I’m thinking he’s going to say what that wonderful author at the CWILL meeting said.  I’m thinking he’s realized it as well.  That he now thinks I really am happening and fresh.  “It makes you look...” he pauses, his finger and thumb together like a French chef about to say Voila, “More...” feeling around for the word.  “Mature.”

What?!  That is definately not what a middle-aged woman wants to hear.  A “mature woman” is just a polite way of calling someone old.  Great.  Not only do I have a sucko haircut, but my husband thinks I look like an old crone.  Which will be fine when I am an old crone.  But I’m not yet.  I’m only forty-eight.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Friday, April 11, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

haircut

I decided that it would probably be wise to get a tiny trim on my medium length, rather conservative, no-muss no-fuss haircut before going on my fantabulous BC Book Tour spree next week.  I called the place I go to and was in luck, S___n had a cancellation.  Great! 

I walked in around five minutes early and brought a book, because it doesn’t matter what the excuse is, S___n is ALWAYS late.  Today, however was different, he wasn’t even in the shop.  “Had to pop out for a moment,” a young woman with pitch black hair and tons of eyeliner informed me. 

No problem, I have my book. 

Cut to: 20 minutes later, he’s still not there and I am sorely tempted to get up and leave.  Five more minutes, I tell myself, and then I shall take me and my hair to another place of business.

At two minutes before deadline time, S___n breezes in, “Sorry, I got held up,” he says giving me a smile that probably worked when he was twenty years younger.  Not to mention, this is the 6th or 7th time I’ve gotten my hair cut and he has NEVER been on time. 

“It happens,” I say, walking a delicate balance between not wanting to be too rude, but also, wanting to let him know that I don’t appreciate it and will not be happy if he is this late the next time I come.  I figure I pulled it off, letting a little bit, of my pressed together tight lips, smile, but keeping most of my mouth straight, and I don’t let the smile reach my eyes.  I can tell by his face that he knows. 

I part with my coat, a gown is slipped around my shoulders and I am seated in his chair.  “What will it be?” he asks.

“Just a trim,” I say.

“I don’t know,” he says fluffing my hair.  “It’s Spring.  How about something new?  Something different?  Something fresh?  Something short?”

“No,” I say.  “I always regret it when I let someone lop my hair off.  This cut works for me.  It requires no attention or thought.”

“Think about it,” he says, as I am whisked off to get shampooed.  “I think you’d really be happy if you let me do something new.”

I thought about it as she washed my hair.  I was remembering other haircuts that I got and hated.  Why mess with something that your comfortable with?  And then I thought about What Not To Wear, and how nobody wants to get their hair cut, take the leap and how happy they all are after they’ve taken the plunge.

“Okay, go for it,” I say when I’m back in his chair, my wet hair dripping onto my cloak.

He practically hugs himself with glee, scissors clacking.  “You’re going to be so happy!  I’m so glad you decided to.  It’s going to be a whole new look.  Fresh.  Happening.”

Now who doesn’t want to be fresh and happening?

I couldn’t see what he was doing because my glasses were off, but I could see huge hunks of hair falling into my lap.  It was amazing how calm I felt.  Excited even, about this new, fresh, happening me that was going to emerge from under all this hair.  My head feeling lighter and lighter with every snip.

Finally he was done.  I had made his day.  He had the best time, being the mad scientist in the beauty salon.  I cleaned off the finger prints and smudges from my glasses resting in my lap, under the robe and put them on.  Hmm?  I looked a little like one of the Beatles, if they had been fluffed up with a little hairspray and styling wax.  Hmm.

“You look so cute!” he says.  “You are going to be so happy with this haircut.  It is so you.”

Well, okay.  Maybe it’s cute and I just don’t see it yet.  I wonder what Don’s going to think?

I get in the car and drive home. 

The dogs dance around when I come in the front door.  They seem to like it.  But then, they’re dogs.  What do they know?

“Hi honey,” I say to Don, typing at his computer.  “He talked me into trying something new.”

Don finishes, typing his sentence and then swivels around in his chair to look at me.  At first it’s like he doesn’t quite register that it’s me, he just looks at me a little blankly, his eyes open a little wider than usual, and an expression on his face like he’s just been hit on the back of his head with a two-by-four. 

And then the laughter come.  Great, huge spasms of it.  He can barely speak he’s laughing so hard.  “You look...” he reaches around his laughter to find an appropriate word.  “Different?” he finally spits out.

No, Don.  Wrong word. 

“You look...ha...ha...ha...” he wipes his eyes, his face, his neck, front and back, crimson with all the effort this laughter is causing him. 

“Oh well,” I say.  “Hair grows.” I’m really surprised at how calm I feel.  I don’t care if my new haircut makes people helpless with laughter.  I don’t mind if I look a fool on the BC Book Tour.  Hopefully, people will be able to look past it, once they pick their laughter-weary bodies back off the floor. 

I go into the kitchen, Don follows close behind.  He has been able to stop laughing momentarily, until I shut the refrigerator door and turn to look at him again.  This triggers a fresh wave of merriment that causes him to thump hard on his chest with his fist so he can suck some breath back into his lungs.  “Well, it certainly is a change,” he wheezes out.

I am starting to feel a little less calm and serene.  “I think I’m going to blog,” I say, walking around him down the hall towards my writing room. 

“It’s a good thing you’re so pretty,” I hear him say from behind me.  I think he is trying to repair the damage.  He thinks this comment will make me feel better.  Wrong.

I enter my writing room.  He stands in the doorway, still staring at my head like an Alien has landed on it and all of a sudden I feel hurt feelings and grouchy.  “Out,” I say.  “I’m going to blog.” I steer him out of the room and shut the door.  I love my husband, but sheesh.  Sometimes he’s clueless.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Thursday, April 10, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

hell in a hand basket

Here you are bloggers!  Courtesy of Gerry.  Also my thanks to James McCann (www.jamesmccann.info/) a fellow author who thoughtfully sent me the Wikipedia link as did my brother Ben, who last week became the proud father of a beautiful baby girl.  Congratulations to my brother Ben, my sister-in-law Joline and little Sam, the sweetest nephew an aunt could have.  Baby Claire, welcome to the world!

To hell in a handbasket

Often heard quoted in the midwest circa 1940s, according to Rieta Collins

Posted by Meg Tilly on Tuesday, April 08, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Scary unemployment numbers

I got this from John Mauldin’s April 5th newsletter.  I’ve been catching up on my reading from when I was out of town.

“More Fun in the Unemployment Numbers

Payrolls tumbled by 80,000 today, more than forecast and the third monthly decline, the Labor Department said today in Washington. The unemployment rate rose to 5.1%, the highest level since September 2005, from 4.8%. The household survey shows the number of unemployed people rose by 438,000. (That is not a typo!) In March, the number of persons unemployed because they lost jobs increased by 300,000 to 4.2 million. Over the past 12 months, the number of unemployed job losers has increased by 914,000.And of course, when you look into the numbers it is worse than the headlines implies.”

I found these numbers to be terrifying.  Soon they won’t just be numbers, they will be, (if they aren’t already) the faces and lives of relatives, neighbours, co-workers and friends.  4.2 million people out of work due to job loss.  Heartbreaking.  And to lose a job at time when credit is increasingly hard to get.  What are these people going to do?

And job losses begets more job losses.  So please everybody, try to cut back on spending, tuck whatever money you can possibly spare away for a rainy day.  Because if it isn’t raining in your neighbourhood yet, it doesn’t mean that the dark storm clouds aren’t lurking just beyond the horizon and a torrential downpour could be in your future.

And if it doesn’t happen?  If you are one of the lucky ones, what harm has been done?  You’ve saved some extra money that you can then tuck away into your IRA or your RRSP for when you retire.  A win-win situation.  Not to mention you’ll be able to sleep a lot better knowing that you and your family have a safety cushion in place.

But I guess it’s how you look at it.  I said to Don as we were driving through town, “Guess how high the U.S. unemployment numbers are?  Keep in mind these are not the long term unemployed who after a certain point no longer show up in the figures.  These are the ones the government cops to.  Guess.  It’s really shocking.”

“Um...10 million?” he said.

”10 million? No, god Don!  4.2.”

“Well,” he replied.  “I guess that isn’t too bad considering there are around 250 million people living in the States.”

“Not bad unless you’re one of the ones who have lost your job.  Or if you happen to be African American.  Then the unemployment rate soars to over 9%.” Which really, really seems wrong.  And all those loan officers who sold all those loans to minorities and such shockingly inflated rates over what they offered white people, SHAME ON YOU! Truly it made me feel sick to my stomach when I read the numbers.

I was reading Postcards from Cape Town and he has bits and pieces from different financial wizards points of view, often totally opposing.  I find it very informative.  Anyway, he had the cover of the English newspaper, The Independent, and it’s front page article was about how 28 million Americans are now relying on Food Stamps just to survive.  And there was something about seeing those numbers in print, seeing the long line of people lined up, defeat in their posture, their shoulders, the way they held their heads, that made my heart hurt so much.  I know that hopeless, hungry feeling. 

And then I can’t help it, I’m in a pretty safe situation right now, but still, I get scared that that one day it could be me again.  Not knowing where my next meal will come from.  That’s why I’m so careful and conservative with my investments.  That’s why, if I can’t pay for it in cash, upfront, I don’t buy it.  No debt.  Very important for me.  Very.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Tuesday, April 08, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

home again

It was nice last night, to sleep in my own bed.  Home and yet, images of Emily and her friends still with me as well. 

Coming back up the front steps from a dinner out, Will said, “I’m glad you’re home, Mom.” He gave me a hug and I was surprised all over again by his size.  My little boy, who I held in my arms had to bend over to give me a hug.  My arms around his waist.  His waist!  Good gracious.  And laughing still, we went inside, Will saying, “And remember how I used to look up at Emily, how she was the biggest?” And when he says it, those days come rushing back.  My sister, Becky, bringing Emily and David over to the hospital right when they got out of school.  The expression on Emily and David’s faces when they saw their new baby brother for the first time.  Climbing up onto my hospital bed, me placing a pillow and then baby Will, who was only a few hours old onto their laps.  First Emily, whose face was shining with a mixture of wonder and awe.  Then little David, four years old, who looked slightly confused, like he’d just woken up. 

I love it when the past and the present collide, unexpectedly.  So you have a foot in both worlds at once. 

Well, most of the times I love it.  I guess it depends on what the memory is that rushes to the forefront.  Some memories, I could do with them staying safely boxed. 

I guess what I love are the cozy ones, memories and times that you didn’t know your heart had tucked away for future pleasure.  Those are the ones I love receiving like an unexpected gift.

Well, I could stay, blog the afternoon away, but I have a presentation to do for the Young Writers & Performers Festival tomorrow, so I guess I’d better go and write it. 

Oh, also, I went by The BC Book Prizes office and picked up my Book Tour package and in it they mentioned that they’d like the authors to blog a little about the whole experience so I think I shall post a thing or two there.  So if you’re curious you can go to www.bcbookprizes.ca then click on Finalists On Tour and the click on On Tour Blog.  And occasionally, you’ll find me there, blogging a bit.  Although, I just checked it out so I could tell you how to get there and it looked very professional, with pictures and everything, so I will write a couple blogs, but I can’t promise they will post them.

Maybe I’ll write one right now and see.  I think I shall.  Yes, another good way to procrastinate working on my presentation tomorrow.  Sound’s like a good plan to me.

Oh, hey and one last thing.  Our beloved friend Gerry (who moonlights as our accountant) contacted Don while I was away and said that going to hell in a hand-basket was in Wikipedia.  So there, take that Webster’s and Oxford’s.

Hmm...I just went to Wikipedia and typed it in and got a lot of movies names and video games.  I don’t really know how to use Wikipedia, I guess.  I couldn’t find it, but if Gerry says it’s there...it’s there!  Because Gerry is nothing if not thorough.  That’s one of the reasons why he’s the most conscientious, brilliant accountant that the world has ever known.  Mind like a steel trap.  Nothing gets by him.

Posted by Meg Tilly on Monday, April 07, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Emily, dippin-dots, and Don’s sleepless night

I came back to the B&B in the afternoon with my daughter in tow.  Actually, I was in her tow if one is being precise.  And the bathtub was cleaned and the room remarkably warmer.  It made me wonder if the B&B owner had looked up my blog?  My husband had nightmares all night and called me at 6 AM his time, his voice all scratchy and sleepless.  That’s how I knew how worried he was.  Which is really sweet, but quite unnecessary.

“You have to move,” he said.  “I couldn’t sleep all night.”

That’s when I realized that perhaps, in my no-wireless-fury, I had overstated all the other small, niggling, and really not a big deal “problems” with the B&B here on my blog.

Tucking into bed last night, I looked around me, thought about my childhood and really I couldn’t have imagined something this fancy and clean growing up.  And I have stayed at relatives and friends houses, with way less to offer.  I think it’s just that when one pays for things, one has certain expectation is all.  I was upset and so all the jarring notes stood out.  The room is very pretty, and now with the tub clean and the room warmer and me having found both breakfast and internet access at a café around 6 blocks away.  I’m totally fine.  Happy even. 

And part of me wishes that the B&B woman hadn’t read my blog and perhaps gotten her feelings hurt, but the practical part, is very happy she did, because I was nice and toasty warm last night.

“Honey,” I replied to Don, in a soothing sort of way.  “Really, I’m fine.  It’s nice enough here.” (What a wonderful thing it is to have a partner who has decided to carry the worry.  Now I can be all laize faire, and generous.) And yes, I know I misspelled that, but there is no Oxford’s at this cafe.

It’s an interesting sensation, visiting Emily here.  Her all grown-up.  Picking me up in her car.  Me being in the passenger seat.  And not only in the literal sense.  She’s taking such thoughtful care of me.  Has researched and made reservations for lunches and dinners and every place we’ve eaten, fantastically good. 

And this morning she called me, as she was heading out the door to her workshop with a visiting poet and then the obligatory luncheon that follows, to tell me that she has located a place that has dippin-dots. 

How sweet is that?  I had mentioned in passing, a while back on the phone, the dippin-dots as something I was planning on doing when I was here because nobody sells dippin-dots in all of B.C. and they didn’t have any all the way up to Bend Oregon, and so I looked it up Online and found that yes, they do sell them here in this little University town that she lives in. 

I was just chatting, you know how mothers do.  Talking about inconsequential stuff, because they don’t want to intrude, budge in too close; breathe up all their children’s space and air.  But Emily, she remembered that I had mentioned it, and she looked it up and made a plan for us to go by a place that sold them this afternoon.  And I can’t tell you how it warmed my heart.  Made me feel loved. 

Sometimes, I feel all bumbly around my grown children.  All fingers and thumbs.  Inadvertently sticking my foot, my mouth in places where it would be best they stayed out of.  Places that seem innocent enough topics, but still, I miss the nuances and get it all wrong. 

It’s hard sometimes, letting go of that totally ridiculous notion if I was a really good mother I would know just how to act, in any circumstance that arose. I would be able to be supportive, but not crippling, loving, but not smothering. 

See, my impulse is to give everything to my kids, emotional, physical, and financial.  But whom would that help?  Who would that giving be for?  Not them.  They don’t want a wishy-washy-bending-over-backwards mother.  How could they respect that?  I have to fight my impulse to make myself small so that I won’t cast an impossible shadow.  They are talented and smart and will find, forge their own way in the world.  In giving too much, I would actually be taking away. 

Posted by Meg Tilly on Friday, April 04, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Some B&B’s are good and some…

I am very frustrated.  I am at this stupid Bed & Breakfast that is seriously one of the worst Bed & Breakfast I have ever encountered.  And believe me, I’ve encountered a lot of them.

Generally, if I have a choice, I’ll choose the Bed & Breakfast over a hotel/motel any day.  I find it is so much cozier.  I enjoy the chance to people watch.  Find it interesting what people choose to say over breakfast, what they don’t.  Watching the interplay between partners, the unspoken dialogue. 

Also, quite often, you get a much nicer room than at a hotel, with a fireplace, and a cozy seating area etc.  Some of them have an afternoon tea, complete with cookies and little crust-less sandwiches.  Others have complimentary Port and chocolate covered strawberries before you tuck into bed.  Others spoil you with a welcoming wine and cheese tray, or warm chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven.

I’m always curious about who chooses to become a Bed and Breakfast owner, and the whys.  My children always tell me I would make a wonderful B&B owner because I am so interested in people, and make delicious breakfasts.  And if I didn’t used to be famous, I could see me being quite happy having a B&B.  Although, I wouldn’t like the extra laundry and the cleaning that would need to be done.  And I don’t think having to let anybody who pays march into my house and demand service would work for me either. 

Although honestly, sometimes Don and I feel like we are running a B&B with the amount of people who come to visit, but at least we have a choice as to whom we are agreeing to do all the extra work for.

But THIS B&B!?  Not good. 

First off, all over the website, “wireless internet in every room.” NOT.  Last night I thought that it was just because I didn’t have the password.  So I had Don post a comment on my blog for me.  Then, when morning came, I brought my computer down to “breakfast” and asked what I was doing wrong.  The woman, who runs this place became very cagy, got busy fluttering around the kitchen, avoiding my eyes, poking at the pot of lumpy porridge that she had congealing on the stove.  Try this, she said.  Try that.  All the while knowing it was useless, because nothing worked. 

Now, how hard can it be?  You tell me what your wireless name is, you give me your password, I type them in and there you are, wireless. 

Nada. 

And I was planning on bloggin this morning. That is why Emily and I decided to meet up at 11ish.  Grrrrr…

Anyway, now I am sitting on my bed, that didn’t have enough covers last night, so I froze my ass off, thank you very much, typing on Microsoft word and hoping that I will be able to cut and paste this onto my site when I get to a wireless Internet café or something. 

Someone’s calling me.  Be right back.

Ha!  The truth is out.  The B&B lady (I know her name, I’m just not using it, because although she is inept, there is something kind of lost and sweet about her as well) just yelled up the stairs that she was sorry that I was having difficulty getting Online. 

I felt hope spring into my chest.  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe it was just a weird glitch that occurred and I just needed to be more diligent. “Oh,” I said scrambling to my feet.  “Maybe I should try again.  Am I the only guest who has had difficulty getting Online?”

There was a pause.  “What?” she said.

“Am I the only guest you’ve had who hasn’t been able to attach to your wireless?”

Another long pause.  “I don’t know,” she said. 

The hope that was flickering in my chest is doused.

“Oh,” I said.

“What I meant was, if you like, you can come downstairs and use my computer.” Which is nice of her to offer.  Well meaning, but the thing is, how am I supposed to get in that private space that is required to blog truthfully, in someone else’s space, on their computer?  It’s not like it would be an impersonal library computer or something.

“But I have a computer,” I lugged the damned thing through a zillion airports yesterday, because her website said they had wireless.  It was one of the highlighted advertising points.  “So if you would just give me the...” I paused.  “Your computer, it’s working on wireless right?”

“No...no...it’s on a land line.”

Now, I’m not happy to hear this, but at least it clears up a few things.  Like why she was acting so weird when I brought my computer down to the “breakfast” this morning, and was trying to get the access name and the password from her.

Sheesh.  Just tell me that you’ve had to cut back on expenses and don’t have wireless anymore, right from the beginning and save me all this bother.  Me struggling, last night, before breakfast, after breakfast, trying to get Online.  What a waste of time.

Okay, now I shall move onto the “breakfast.” One of the things I love about B & B’s is all the niceties.  The ritual, the pretty settings, the themes, the matching plates, the centerpieces, the carefully prepared food.  I love seeing what kind of things other people come up with for breakfast.  The pampering.  Somebody serving me a lovely breakfast for a change, it’s a nice treat to have it done for me, since I have spent a lifetime doing it for others.

Well, at this B & B you can kiss that good-bye.  I felt rather sorry for the other two guests that stumbled downstairs this morning in their robes, looking sleepy-eyed and hungry. 

There was no beautifully laid table.  There were three plates stuck on a counter in a very crowded, messy kitchen.  It was a help-yourself kind of deal.  Water boiling in a pot on the stove if you want to make yourself some tea.  Gross looking porridge in a pot, and some fresh pineapple diced and sprinkled on the top of a fruit salad that had definitely been hanging around the fridge for a few days, everything brown.  Eww.  I took a little bowl of fruit salad and plucked the pineapple bits out. 

Oh!  Not to mention, when everyone was assembled in the kitchen, she waved her hands in the direction of the messy counter and said, “Help yourself.  I’m trying to be as much hands off as possible because I think I’m coming down with a nasty cold.” Accompanied by a great throat clearing and snuffing.  Great.

So that explains why we are expected to root around her kitchen assembling our own breakfast.  Except for, I have a feeling that this is her standard stock-and-trade.  Just like the “wireless”.

Oh and here’s another thing, there are no washcloths in the bathroom, and the little bottles of shampoo and whatever...are half used.  It’s like she knows sort of what a B&B is supposed to be, but there is no follow through. 

It was quite funny when I got here.  The taxi driver from Somalia was worried about leaving.  “Are you sure this is the place?” he’d asked.  I guess because of all the clutter on the porch.  “Are you going to be okay?” “I’m fine,” I’d said breezily, because the name of the place was posted right on the wall. 

“I’ll wait,” he said.  “To make sure.” Because I’d knocked a few times and no one was coming to the door.  I knocked again.  Nobody.  I tried the door.  It swung open.  Oh God.  I thought, this is not good, but I plastered a smile on my face, waved over my shoulder to the taxi driver and plunged inside. 

The odd sort of smell was what hit me first.  “Hello,” I called out.  “Hello?”

A frowsy haired woman came lurching around the corner and approached me in a sort of shuffling sideways gait.  And that was my introduction to the _______ _______ Bed and Breakfast.  Yeeouwza.

***

Okay, so I finished my B&B rant to you, and still I had a half an hour until my daughter calls, so I thought, fine, I’ll take a little catnap.  The room is freezing cold, even though I have on my thick socks and am wearing corduroy pants, a long sleeved shirt and the green cashmere zip-up sweater that Jenny gave me.  STILL I’m cold, so I tuck myself into bed, with all my clothes on and shut my eyes.  And it is like a comedy movie or something, because no sooner do my eyes shut when the B&B lady decides to put on some music.

Not soothing-okay-to-snooze-by music.  No.  Of course not.  Her taste is in pounding pianos and shrieking violins.  Loud, passionate, dark music, like a storm of discord, roaring up the stairs. 

A catnap...impossible.

And to be fair, the room is quite nice, tasteful colors, pretty pastoral pastel drawings on the wall, nicely framed.  A mix of old and new furniture.  The sheets, thank god, were clean.  The B&B is centrally located.

But, I don’t know, I’m here visiting my daughter until Sunday, and I am seriously thinking about moving.  I’ve never done this before, and I’ll have to pay for the whole stay anyway, because there is a 7-day cancellation policy, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, because she can’t help that she is no good at this.  But I really might have to. 

***

Okay, that does it.  I just looked into the bathtub.  The enamel is all chipped and there are some curly pubic hairs interspersed with a couple of longer head hairs clinging to the bottom and sides of the tub.  Gross!  That does it.  I’m going to have to try and find someplace else. 

A place with Internet and clean tubs.  It’s too bad, because there is something quite endearing about this rather odd woman.  I enjoy her.  Even though we don’t talk much.  She sparks my imagination.  I imagine she is enormously intelligent.  That she would be a fascinating friend, once you wiggled past the layers of other.  An unconventional, interesting friend, that might appear tucked into the pages of one of my books some day.  A good B&B owner.  Never!  Perhaps I should stay and just avoid her cold, the breakfast, wear lots of layers to bed and walk the six blocks required to get to this Internet cafe.  (Which I am, at present, enjoying a cup of hot steamed milk and a delicious gingersnap cookie.) Because this B&B certainly hasn’t been boring. 

Well, my dear bloggers, I’ll keep you posted as to what I finally decide to do.  I’d better post this now as my daughter will be picking me up any minute now.  xo

Posted by Meg Tilly on Thursday, April 03, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Hello, Don Here

Meg was flying all day and has asked me to write.  She just got back from having dinner with her daughter and can’t get the wireless internet to work where she is staying.  So here I am, letting you know that she will get it all straightened out tomorrow and write a nice long, chatty blog then.  

Posted by Meg Tilly on Wednesday, April 02, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Page 5 of 16 pages « First  <  3 4 5 6 7 >  Last »